One Bullet
by Jade Nolan
Summary: Mac Taylor - Marine, Force Recon Captain, MIA. Claire had no problem not knowing what Mac did and where he went on missions, but not knowing whether he was alive or dead was a torture nothing could have prepared her for. 'M' for language and scenes of graphic violence.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** _This is entirely a work of fiction and based on fictional characters and events. The broader historical scope is true - the US supplied weapons to various countries and factions of South and Latin America of various choosing, through 3rd party avenues_, _and one of these shipments really was stolen by the Honduran military who in turn supplied them to the Farabundo Marti National Liberation Front in El Salvador. But anything more specific than that I have completely made up. Additionally, I don't pretend to know how Force Recon units exactly operate, let alone how they functioned in practicality in the 1980s. Some things I know are blatantly wrong (such as Mac as a captain being out in the field - Recon team leaders are usually Staff Sgts). I do however, know the meaning and implications of all of Mac's ribbons and badges as displayed on the show and must be forced to guess and make up some of the things he was and might have been involved in. This is one such attempt.  
_

_All characters except for those created by CBS are my own.  
_

* * *

**Chapter 1**

**_January, 2005_  
**

Mac almost slammed the door to his office closed, absolutely seething. He hadn't realized Sonny Sassone's words had gotten to him as much as they had until after the interrogation was over and he was headed back from the precinct. They'd incensed him at the time, but he'd been temporarily distracted by Sassone's mention of Danny, and now his blood was practically boiling.

"_That's right, that's the way we do it – Mafia style. You look a man dead in the eye and watch the light go out. But you wouldn't know anything about __**that**__, would ya…__**copper**__."_

He took off his suit jacket and threw it viciously onto the half-couch against the wall. His first impulse was to pick up the nearest heavy object and fling it against the wall, but he clamped down on the almost overwhelming urge and walked to the opposite side of his desk, running his fingers through his hair and trying to gain some control.

"_I'm a Marine you little punk. I've put men in the ground on foreign soil so you can sleep at night. But you wouldn't know anything about __**that**__, would you…__**kid**__."_

If Sassone or Stella had stopped to think about the implication of his instantaneous retort, Sassone might not have continued beeing quite so belligerent, and Stella might have realized he had just inadvertently let on far more about his military past than he had ever intended. He glanced around the walls of his office which held old pictures of his military days, a display with his ribbons and badges safely encased, and various other little memorabilia from his time in service. It told a very paradoxical story if one simply took the time to notice.

At first glance and with a superficial overview, one might be forgiven if they thought he'd served multiple tours of duty during wartime. His awards and medals included two bronze stars with valor, a purple heart and a silver star for god's sake, not to mention multiple other meritorious action ribbons. But Vietnam was over long before he commissioned, and as much as part of him was dying to exchange his badge for fatigues and go back to Iraq, he certainly wasn't involved in the current war. No, minus Desert Storm, he had served the vast majority of his time during what was supposed to be peace time.

"…_look a man dead in the eye and watch the light go out…" … "…I've put men in the ground on foreign soil so you can sleep at night…" … "…put men in the ground on foreign soil…"_

The phrases repeated themselves over and over in his head.

"…_put men in the ground on foreign soil…" … "…watch the light go out…"_

He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes in an attempt to obliterate the accompanying memories and images. His unconscious choice of words wasn't an accident. They weren't the words of someone who'd killed others in the heat of combat (although he'd done that too). Foreign soil…places off limits, off the record…calculated killing…missions no one knew about except those who sweat, bled and sometimes died on them. It wasn't that Sassone had simply made a derogatory assumption against Mac having been a Marine and the intrinsic pride that accompanied the title, but he had unknowingly triggered and delegitimized the most closely guarded, raw and powerful memories Mac held of his time in uniform.

Because he wasn't _just_ an infantry Marine as he had started out and that he was content to let people assume he had remained. He had been in Force Recon, the spec ops of the branch, going on both green and black operations doing things from deep reconnaissance to providing personal security detail in what were deemed high-threat locations for critical personal, and augmenting Seal teams. And until the lead-up to Desert Storm in 1990, he had come to know South and Latin America far more than he had ever cared to.

He could almost smell certain environments again, feel the unique combination of adrenaline and sense of imminent danger, hear the silence and feel the thread of near-telepathic communication as he and his team would go days without speaking while in deep recon, the silent kills when necessity called for it, and... a thunderclap of rapid fire images and remembered visceral fear escaped and plunged through him. He tried to stop _that _memory from surfacing, unconsciously clenching one fist, rubbing his wrist and squeezing his eyes closed as he tried to coral the escaped memory and relock it in its designated cell.

There was a knock on his office door. He practically jumped, and whipped his head around. It was Stella.

"Mac?" she asked quizzically, not missing the startled look which he rapidly made vanish in his eyes.

"Yeah? Oh, sorry," he gestured and fully turned to face her. He tried to not let it show how fast his heart was racing, "I was going over something in my head." Which was perfectly true, but Stella would have no clue what it actually was and simply assume it was related to a case.

"The thing Sassone mentioned about Danny?" Stella asked.

"Yes," Mac lied, the shift in subject yanking him back to the present and turning the residual images in his head to wisps that slowly floated back to where they belonged.

"Well that's actually what I came up here to talk to you about," Stella said, "Do you have any idea what he was talking about? Does Danny have anything to worry about something?"

The pounding in his chest eased as he gratefully turned his attention to anything but what had crashed back and turned his stomach into twisting knots...

* * *

_**May, 1988**_

"I've got to head out tomorrow," Mac told Claire in a heavy, quiet voice.

"But you just got back last week!" Claire protested.

"I know," Mac sighed, wearily rubbing one eye with the back of his hand.

"Do you know how long you'll be gone?" Claire asked him.

"Not exactly," Mac replied, "Two or three weeks probably."

"They need to give you a fucking break," Claire muttered rebelliously, "Who do I need to talk to, hmm? Which stupid lieutenant colonel or general?"

Mac laughed, loving the idea of her marching into Colonel Greer's office and demanding his orders be rescinded. She'd do it too, he thought. He kissed her. "It's not that long," he said, placing his hands on her shoulders, "And I'll be home in time for your birthday."

"Why? You got something special planned?" Claire asked.

"Maybe," Mac replied cryptically with a little half-smile.

"You better have," she retorted, returning his smile and poking him in his chest. Then she sighed, "I just hate it when you buzz-cut your hair for missions or training or whatever it is you go and do."

"It's a mission this time," Mac interjected.

"Either way," Claire said emphatically, "You look so much sexier when it's longer."

Mac snorted, "So I tell you I'm going off on some dangerous mission and the only reason you don't want me to go is so my hair can grow longer." Claire opened her mouth to protest but Mac cut her off, "No, no I get it, I'm not sexy enough as is for you," he sniffed, "My body and charming personality just don't cut it for you I guess. You want to be able to take me round to all your girlfriends and go 'Oooooh, look at my boyfriend, isn't his hair just _gorgeous_'?!" Mac said, doing a mocking imitation of Claire walking in heels with a droop of his hand, and speaking in a higher pitched voice with a lisp, "'Why just look at those luscious locks'!"

"You buttface!" Claire exclaimed, throwing a couch cushion at him and unable to stop collapsing in laughter, "That is so not true, and _SO_ not how I sound!"

" 'Why he's so handsome'," Mac continued mercilessly with another flip of his hand and ducking the couch cushion which flew over his head.

"Would you shut up!" Claire exclaimed between fits of laughter.

But Mac ignored her and with a little toss of his chin, exaggeratedly ran his hand along the side of his head, " 'I convinced him to use this new conditioner and I could just run my fingers through his hair all day!'" He couldn't contain his own laughter anymore as he fled down the hallway to escape Claire's lunging tackle.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxx**

He was always taken by some surprise at how completely and quickly he made the mental transition from 'home' to 'mission'. He had kissed Claire goodbye and hadn't even made it out the driveway before his entire focus had shifted. Whereas only moments before, he really really hadn't wanted to leave again so soon, he now felt his mind and body come alive as a thrill of adrenaline of an imminent mission rushed through him. He was an addict and he knew it. The danger was real, the casualties and injuries were real, the fear was real, but he perversely loved it. And while he did and would miss Claire, entertaining any focus on anything but his job would spell disaster, and he filtered out 'home' without even thinking about it.

He pulled into the parking lot of his company's HQ and got out, quickly pulling his patrol cap on and straightening the jacket of his fatigues.

"Sir," he was greeted as he walked to the front entrance.

He returned the salute. "Sergeant," he replied.

Staff Sgt. Nate Ridley was also all business as he fell in step next to Mac. "Heard anything yet about this mission, sir?" he asked.

"Nope," Mac replied, "Got handed the orders yesterday, was told to pick my best marksman and scout and that the rest would be explained in our debrief."

"What are we doing then, augmenting another Seal team?" Ridley asked as the pair entered the building.

Mac shrugged and took off his cap, stuffing it in his cargo pocket. "I'm assuming so," he replied.

Taller than Mac, Ridley just stared at his own eye level at Mac's head.

"What?" Mac asked.

"You didn't re-cut your hair," Ridley observed.

Mac scowled. "The girlfriend didn't want me to," he replied.

Ridley, who was eight years older than Mac and was married and had a toddler, just sniggered. "It's begun already, sir," he said smugly, "I tried to warn you."

Mac shot him a withering look as the two entered the small conference room where Colonel Greer and Jeffries, their medic, were already waiting along with a couple guys who Mac recognized as members of Seal Team 1.

"Taylor," Greer welcomed Mac.

"Morning, sir," Mac replied, taking a seat at front of the room while Ridley and Jeffries exchanged greetings and proceeded to discuss their prior weekend.

"Taylor, you know Lt. Nuñez, right?" Greer asked extending his hand to one of the Seals on the other side of the table from Mac.

"Oh yes," Mac replied, while Nuñez nodded. He and the Seal lieutenant had done a number of joint training exercises together.

"Good," Greer said, "Lieutenant, are your other two men coming?"

"They should be here any minute," Nuñez said, as, as if on cue, the door opened and the last two members of the combined team entered.

"Excellent," Greer said as the two acknowledged their lieutenant with a nod and sat down. "First off," said, addressing the room, "It looks like some of you already know each other, but to make it official, I'm Lt. Col. Greer, this is Capt. Taylor, Staff Sgt. Ridley, Sgt. Jeffries, Sgt. Barton, and," he gestured to the opposite side of the table, "Lt. Nuñez, Petty Officer Paulson, Scopora and Willis. Alright then," he continued, switching on the slide projector, "Let's get this started."


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** _This is entirely a work of fiction and based on fictional characters and events. The broader historical scope is true - the US supplied weapons to various countries and factions of South and Latin America of various choosing, through 3rd party avenues_, _and one of these shipments really was stolen by the Honduran military who in turn supplied them to the Farabundo Marti National Liberation Front in El Salvador. But anything more specific than that I have completely made up. Additionally, I don't pretend to know how Force Recon units exactly operate, let alone how they functioned in practicality in the 1980s. I do however, know the meaning and implications of all of Mac's ribbons and badges as displayed on the show and must be forced to guess and make up some of the things he was and might have been involved in. This is one such attempt.  
_

_All characters except for those created by CBS are my own._**  
**

_Thanks for reading and please drop me a review! :)  
_

* * *

**Chapter 2**

"Javier Caliez," Greer started, bringing up a slide with the picture of a Latin American man, "We have good reason to believe he's the facilitator of the sale of shipments of weapons we're funneling through the Honduran military and that have been stolen. I don't need to tell you," Greer continued, looking pointedly at the collection of men in the room, "That Latin and South America and the Middle East are an utter mess and that our government in its infinite wisdom has sought to manage this mess through manipulation."

They all did know, hence Greer's look. Not just from the obscenely glossed over public version that got into the media, but from personal and first-hand experience. They'd whisked out compromised operatives, escorted ambassadorial personal through essential warzones, and been sent on assigned missions to paint targets for unofficial hits and do whatever else needed to be done.

"The CIA," Greer continued, "Has been bribing the Honduran military to be their third-party arms supplier, but more than one shipment has ended up being stolen and then sold to the Farabundo Marti National Liberation Front in El Salvador."

"This being one of the factions we have deemed is not in our best interest to encourage?" Mac asked somewhat scathingly. He knew that at least the short term results of the various rebel groups and established governments the US picked and chose to support behind the scenes, or squash, were advantageous, but how things would shake out in the long term was anyone's guess and Mac's patience was currently worn thin with the ridiculous pace of missions he and his company had gotten orders for over last year or two.

"That's right, Taylor," Greer said with an edge to his voice, indicating he did not appreciate the attitude his young captain was giving him, "Now, the Honduran military in of themselves can't do direct business with the FMNLF and this is where Javier Caliez comes in. He ostensibly "steals" the arms shipments and sells them to the FMNLF taking a percentage of the profits for himself."

"How long has he been operating?" Nuñez asked.

"For the last ten years he's been the main middle man for moving arms coming into Latin America from various other countries that might or might not want their names attached, and he's been a direct pain in our side for the last two."

"Why haven't we taken him out before this?" Ridley spoke up, "And why aren't the CIA handling it? They're the ones supplying the weapons in the first place. Why are we being sent to do their dirty work?"

Greer frowned at the staff sergeant and made a mental note to talk to Taylor about the lack of military decorum from his company.

"Sir," Ridley added, finishing.

"Because we can't really find him to get to him," Greer said, "We have the supposed location of where he operates, but satellites have never been able to pick up anything beyond vehicle traffic that comes and goes. We need an actual team on the ground and that is where you come in."

The eight of them all looked at each clearly thinking the same thing. It was Nuñez who spoke up. "Sir, all due respect, but if all it is is a recon mission then isn't that kind of, well, Recon's job? What are we here for?"

"We've gotten the go-ahead to take him out if you get the chance."

There was silence around the table. Now Mac knew why he'd been told to pick out his best marksman and scout. "What if we don't get the chance?" he asked.

"Depends on why," Greer said, "If you're uncompromised and it's for logistical or strategic reasons, we'll send another team in as soon as any information you gather can be passed on. If it's because you're compromised, we'll do our best, but we're not supposed to be sending weapons through the country nor have military in Honduras."

He let the implication of his last statement hang in the air. The here-we-go-again attitude from Mac and the rest of the team, largely evaporated.

"So why specifically can't this Caliez be found?" Mac finally asked quietly.

"Not sure," Greer said. He pulled up another slide that had the satellite image he had referenced earlier, "Ostensibly, all there is is a road leading to nowhere, but clearly there's something, and local intel has pinned this location. This," he gestured towards the non-descript picture that revealed nothing more than vegetation and a couple roads cutting through, "Is five clicks west of La Mesa which is not much more than a small village just south of Pueblo Nuevo. Another weapons shipment is going to be arriving in Honduras in a month. It can't afford to be stolen and the Honduran military needs to know they can't do what they want. You're going to fly into Villanueva and meet up with Allan Komiski who's the local operative in the area and will let you know the best way to get out to this location," Greer tapped the projected satellite image. "Any questions?"

xxxxx

The briefing lasted another two hours with Mac, Nuñez, and their respective teams hammering out as many details as they could before leaving.

"Taylor, hold up," Greer said as Mac was about to leave the conference room.

"Yes sir?" Mac replied, turning. Ridley shot him an inquisitive glance but Mac nodded him on.

"Close the door," Greer told him as Ridley exited.

Mac obeyed the injunction, already feeling the stirrings of stubborn rebellion as he had an idea of what Greer wanted to talk to him about.

"What the fuck is your problem, Taylor?" Greer lit into him the moment Mac had clicked the door closed.

"What do you mean, sir?" he replied stiffly.

"You think because you're some fucking hotshot around here that you can get away with giving your lieutenant colonel attitude and obviously fostering an environment of fucking disrespect in your company?!"

"I don't understand what you're referring to, sir," Mac said, although he knew very well the reprimand was in response to how he and then Ridley had spoken during the first part of the debrief.

"You know exactly what I'm fucking talking about," Greer spat back, "Where the hell do you get off letting one of your staff sergeants talk like that to a senior officer?"

Mac's back was rigid and his jaw set as every inch of him bristled. It was absurd and so typical of higher command, and Greer in particular, to get their panties all wadded into a bunch at the most trivial things. He realized his attitude had been borderline at best and Ridley probably had crossed some decorum line, but for god's sake they had only gotten back nine days earlier from another, albeit brief, but very tense mission to El Salvador (of all places considering their connection to this current mission).

"Sir," Mac interjected, as even though Greer had posed a question to him, it was obvious it had been intended as a rhetorical one, "Where the fuck do you get off sending us back out so soon and then expecting a 'Yes sir, right away sir, I'll be happy to, SIR!'?"

Standing right outside the door, Ridley, Jeffries, and Barton listened as the sound of barely muffled expletives and yelling that followed from Greer made its way out to the hallway. A full five minutes later Mac emerged, his face livid, and all but slamming the door behind him as he marched out.

Ridley fell in next to his captain with Jeffries and Barton on either side of them and only a step behind. "You alright?" he asked Mac.

"Fuck him," Mac said, his voice shaking and not breaking stride. It wasn't the first time he and Greer had had into an argument over Greer's obsession with demanding the most anal adherence to procedures and decorum that had only ever been meant to instill a sense of structure and propriety in recruits. At this level and especially in the elite, tight world of Recon, all it indicated was a bloated sense of self-importance and ego. But Greer was an aging lieutenant colonel who, for whatever reason, hadn't been able to make the next step to full-bird colonel and tried to compensate for his injured pride by being an utter and complete ass. Mac prayed for the day when Greer was reassigned or retired.

Ridley didn't say anything, knowing that Mac would elaborate on his own in a few moments.

"He's going to try to get you busted down to E-5 when we get back," Mac informed Ridley.

Ridley gaped. "What the fuck…?" he said in as much astonishment as anger. Yeah he'd probably been too snarky in the debrief, but nothing even remotely disrespectful enough to deserve more than a verbal reprimand, particularly given how strained the whole company was right now.

"Don't worry," Mac told Ridley, "I told him in no uncertain terms that there wasn't a chance in hell that was happening if I had anything to say about it." Mac paused, pulling out his patrol cap as they approached main entrance door. "And he's docking my pay starting as of now."

Ridley felt a rush of fierce gratitude towards his captain. Mac could very easily have gone along with Greer's accusations and played the game to not only save himself from any repercussions, but put himself in Greer's good graces by consenting to throw Ridley under the bus. Jeffries and Barton also immediately grasped the entirety of what had transpired. There was a reason why Mac's company had one of the highest morales and highest mission success rates – every one of them down to the last person knew they could trust their young captain implicitly, and the mutual respect and trust permeated the whole company.

The four Marines emerged from the building into the bright sunlight of a gorgeous May morning in San Diego where Nuñez and his Seals were already waiting.

"Well," said Ridley, grinning at his captain, "Isn't this going to be a fun trip."

Mac let out a short laugh as he jammed his cover on his head and felt some of the red-hot rage that had been coursing through him fade away. "That it is, Sergeant, that it is."


End file.
